


Lessons Learned from English Literature 101

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gift Exchange, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a professor of English literature. Marianne is a university student with an eye for people. These things never do end well. But oh, they both think, that doesn't matter in stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons Learned from English Literature 101

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArchangelUnmei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/gifts).



> Written as part of [FrUK Gift Exchange](http://frukgiftexchange.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for [archangelunmei](http://archangelunmei.tumblr.com/), for the following request: "Arthur is a teacher at a very prestigious school for young ladies. Marianne is the student determined to get into those tweed pants. (Age kink (ten years - or more! - between Arthur and Marianne) accepted and encouraged.)" 
> 
> Full disclosure, the wish is much sexier than the fic ended up being. But I hope you enjoy the fic nonetheless, and that your 2015 is wonderful and very happy! You are definitely one of my favorite authors in this fandom, so it was really exciting to write something for you! 
> 
> In this story, Marianne is 19 and Arthur is 35. The age of consent is 16 in the UK and 15 in France, but their relationship would still count as an abuse of a position of trust. So basically, don't sleep with your professors. 
> 
> Marianne is Nyotalia!France, obviously, and her roommate is Vietnam, who's name is Nhị. Li Na, who is only mentioned, is Taiwan. And you can imagine the mentioned James as Scotland, too.

Arthur always looks forward to Easter Term, if only because he doesn’t have to worry about a classroom full of teenagers fresh from A-levels, all clamoring for instruction they should’ve received years ago. Students who’ve been through two terms know, at least, not to bother turning in papers without proper citations. And they’ve been thoroughly educated on Professor Kirkland’s views on the Oxford Comma, which means he won’t have to give that lecture twice a week. 

He really hates survey courses, he’s reminded as he writes his name across the chalkboard in script that always seems to tilt downwards. He sets the chalk aside and straightens his bowtie, then clears his throat. 

Two dozen faces immediately look up at him—young men from St. John’s, and the ladies of St. Joan’s. They clutch syllabi in their hands and thankfully none of them have thought to take out their laptops. Arthur isn’t a luddite, precisely, but he knows all too well that distracted students never grasp anything he’s trying to teach them. He requests this room, with its old-fashioned green chalkboard and sturdy wooden desks, for precisely that reason. It’s an ambiance he’s always chasing, even when Professor Jones gives him a wry look and says, “Don’t you think that’s a bit ‘Dead Poet’s Society,’ Artie?” 

He straightens the pile of books on the desk in front of him and looks back at the students. No familiar faces, but that’s to be expected—this is an introductory course, after all. 

“You’ll find all the required texts for the course on reserve at the library, and copies have been ordered for the bookstore. I _highly recommend_ purchasing your own books, and as soon as possible. We’ll be reading one text a week, and failure to keep up with the pace of the class will result—”

The door at the back of the classroom bursts open, and two dozen heads turns as Arthur swallows a curse by biting his tongue. He can hear the soft click of heels against the floor, and then his newest student comes into view. 

She’s tall, a wispy skirt swaying over her knees and leaving the length of her pale legs bare. Not that Arthur’s looking at her legs—he’s ignoring the tight fit of her sweater, too, and the particularly red shade of her lips. 

He expects her to pick a seat at the back of the class, to duck her head and make herself largely invisible, like most students trying to avoid his famous temper do. But she surprises him, walking up the center aisle like it’s a runway. She takes a seat right in the front row, adjusting the spread of her skirt and crossing her legs at the ankle. 

It’s after a moment of stale silence that she looks up, and seems to see Arthur for the first time.

“Oh, Professor—don’t let me interrupt. Do continue.” She looks like the furthest thing from contrite, her red lips curling into a knowing smile.

And, heavens help him, she’s _French_. 

\--

Marianne Bonnefoy is, currently, in her second year at St. Joan’s. A native Parisian, she seems to have taken to the English countryside with the same attitude as most of her countrymen—her nose in the air, casting disdain all around her. 

She sits through Arthur’s class with a bored expression stamped across her porcelain features, her lips only curling into a smile when he calls her out on looking half asleep or turning around to chat with her friends. The young men in question, two students from St. John’s, never seem as interested in Arthur’s discussions of _The Canterbury Tales_ as they are with Marianne’s snide comments. 

“And _what_ , precisely, is so fascinating behind you, Miss Bonnefoy?” Arthur snaps out on one such occasion. 

She turns back around with a flip of her hair, smiling as though she finds the prospect of being thrown out of Arthur’s class very amusing. 

“Nothing, Professor. I was just mentioning to dear Antonio how nice I thought your jacket was.”

Arthur looks down at himself and sees nothing out of the ordinary—his regular three-piece tweed suit, a crisp white shirt and olive-colored tie. He is not so out of touch with reality, however, that he doesn’t recognize a schoolgirl’s taunting when he hears it. 

“When my clothing becomes relevant to the ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale,’ we can discuss it further,” Arthur grits out. “Until then, you can turn around, or you can leave.”

Marianne nods with a dip of her head, swinging her legs around to face forward, the very portrait of an enthusiastic student. By this point, however, Arthur knows better. He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair and goes back to discussing rich widows and mystical faerie women.

\--

“You wanted to see me?” Unlike most of his students, Marianne doesn’t wait for permission before entering his office. She also doesn’t look as haggard as most students do around midterms—there are no dark circles under her eyes, no evidence of nights spent hunched over a desk.

Arthur glances up at her and nods, gesturing idly at the seat in front of his desk as he finishes tapping out an email to the program director. Professor Vargas doesn’t much care for deadlines, but Arthur thinks that Marianne can stand to wait a few minutes.

When he finally does look away from his computer and towards her, he finds her studying him intensely. Her thin brows are drawn together over her wide blue eyes, strands of ash blonde hair falling with deliberate artfulness around her face. 

He clears his throat, unnerved by her scrutiny. 

“Excuse me,” she says, pushing her chair back a few inches and looking instead at the brass unicorn paperweight on his desk. “About my paper…”

“Yes, yes,” Arthur says, reaching for it when she holds it out to him. It’s a now-crumpled seven pages, bleeding liberally with his own red-inked comments. Across the top margin he’d written _SEE ME_. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand what you did wrong?” 

Marianne leans back slightly. She’s in a cream-colored sweater today, the hue warm against her pale skin. Eventually, she shrugs. “Did I use the Oxford Comma wrong?” He half-expects her to wink, after that comment, but she doesn’t.

“You completely failed to address the prompt.” He flips back through the paper, teeth digging into the inside of his cheek. “You have a good idea or two floating around in here, but it’s drowned by your philosophizing. And you spend three paragraphs speculating on the lives of the characters when you should be analyzing what they’ve said. It doesn’t matter if the Wife of Bath was older than her latest husband—”

“It doesn’t?” Marianne asks, arching a brow. “I was just trying to address the context, _Professor_.”

“Don’t,” Arthur snaps. “Answer the prompt. Or you’ll fail this class.” 

“Maybe you could walk me through exactly what I did wrong,” Marianne suggests. She glances at the clock behind Arthur’s head, though he doesn’t think she actually reads it. “I’ve got the time.”

He almost says yes. There’s something inherently fascinating about a student who isn’t utterly terrified of him, and at his heart Arthur is a teacher—he’d love to come away from this feeling as though he’s bestowed a gift upon this girl, and enlightened her to all future interactions with literature.

But, glancing back at her, Arthur is overcome with a feeling of distinct discomfort. He pushes his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor as he gets to his feet.

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” he tells her primly, handing her back her paper. “I’ll see you in class, Miss Bonnefoy.” 

\--

Marianne is growing impatient, and not the least bit frustrated. Currently, she’s seated on one of the grassy hills overlooking the river. Students are out in boats, rowing across the still water as she looks past and through them. Not even Antonio and Gilbert waving to her catches her attention.

She has a sketchpad balanced against her knees, her skirt draped modestly. She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and scribbles against a clean page, marking out features—lips pulled back in annoyance, nose dotted with freckles, strong eyebrows over wide eyes.

She glances up again at the literature building, stifling a sigh. Professor Kirkland, she thinks idly, is tucked away in one of those rooms, maybe visible through one of those windows. She’s never met a man precisely like him, so full of emotion and so unwilling to admit it. She likes the way his face contorts when he speaks, the way his cheeks color when he’s particularly enthusiastic, the way his lips part when he relaxes, even if just for a moment…

The sketch is now complete—Professor Kirkland, dramatically reading off the book that floats next to him on the page. Marianne snaps the sketchbook shut and leans back on her elbows, not giving a second thought to grass stains. 

It’s been just over a month since she entered Kirkland’s class. She’d done so as a challenge, initially. Her roommate, Nhị, had constantly complained last term about her dragon of a literature professor. And Marianne had laughed and tossed her hair, and told Nhị that no professor was unbeatable.

But now, many weeks later, she doesn’t much care about her grade in the class. English literature can go hang, as far as she’s concerned. No, Marianne has more drastic problems to deal with. 

She flips open the sketchbook again, smiles fondly at the face that’s present on more pages than not. Marianne has a problem— for the first time, she thinks she’s in love.

\--

St. Joan’s dorms are housed in old buildings, which means cold winters and stifling summers. Three double rooms link up to make each suite, with an adjoining common room and baths. It’s not the most extravagant rooming Marianne has ever had, but it’s also not the worst. 

“You have mail,” Nhị says, barely looking up from her laptop as Marianne throws herself down against her bed. That, at least, catches her attention. Sure enough, there’s a small pile of letters on her bedside table.

Marianne reaches for the stack and flips through them, assessing each name with frown or a huff.

“What, no one good enough ask you to the May Ball?” Nhị isn’t a bad roommate, precisely, but she has very little patience for Marianne. 

“No one worth mentioning,” Marianne answers seriously, ignoring Nhị’s boredom with the topic. Marianne’s getting three or four letters a week, now. And while many of the St. John’s boys are dears, really, she can’t imagine taking any of them as a date to the largest formal of the year. 

“Admit it, you just like being a heartbreaker.” 

“It can’t qualify as breaking hearts if we’ve never dated in the first place,” Marianne protests. And it really isn’t as though she encourages any of these boys. And that’s what they are, isn’t it? They have nothing particularly sophisticated to offer, nothing besides sloppy kisses and fumbling encounters. She’s tired of those. 

She lies back against her pillows, laying the letters back against the desk. “Let’s not talk about me,” she says. “What about you? Have you asked Li Na yet?”

All she gets for her concern is a pillow thrown at her face. It’s particularly undignified, but somehow Marianne finds herself laughing.

\--

She has Professor Kirkland’s class early on Thursday morning, which means that by the time Friday evening rolls around she’s had a day and a half to stew in her latest failure. Ever since the meeting in Kirkland’s office, she’s been trying out a new strategy. She’s been the model student, attentive and charming. (Well, she’s always charming, but it’s not as if she can turn that off.)

But Kirkland doesn’t respond to any of it. When she asks him how he’s doing, he’ll answer distractedly, and never with a smile. He’s keeping his distance, and she hates it. She prides herself on being able to crack anyone open with the right sort of behavior—some people respond to icy unapproachability, others to eagerness and warmth. But Kirkland isn’t falling into a pattern, and the more she fails the more she wants. 

Gilbert had promised to buy her drinks, tonight, even though he’s not privy to the reason she needs them. She loves him, and Antonio, dearly—but she treads lightly. She’d made out with Gilbert a bit at her first college party, and taken Antonio to bed at the end of Michaelmas Term last year. After that, she’d drawn her lines, but neither of them had made a secret of the fact that they wouldn’t be averse to more. It’s terribly exhausting, managing them. 

And now they haven’t even bothered to show up. Marianne grinds her teeth and crosses her legs, waving off the waiter who comes to ask for her drink order. She’ll drink when the cheap and terrible wine is free, and not a moment before. 

She’s just about to call the entire evening a wash when she spots a familiar figure taking a seat at the booth two down from hers. She’s on her feet in a moment, walking past as though she has somewhere urgent to be.

“Professor!” she calls out, stopping mid-stride. “I didn’t know you liked this place.”

Professor Kirkland looks up and gives her a look of mild alarm—Marianne decides she’ll take it. He’s wearing a tie, again, but tonight he’s shed his jacket at least. He’s thinner than she expected, under all those layers. 

“Miss Bonnefoy,” he says after a moment’s painful silence. “What are you doing here?”

“Just waiting for some friends,” she says casually, not asking for permission before taking the seat across from him. “Louis and Jeannette are always saying you shouldn’t drink anywhere without a Michelin Star, but this place is charming, don’t you think?”

“Er,” the professor says, intelligently. “I suppose.”

Marianne beams, nodding to herself. “I mean, I suppose beer is beer wherever you go. I don’t really care for it. What about you?”

This time, Professor Kirkland coughs. “I’m not going to discuss my drinking habits with you.”

“Of course,” she says agreeably. “But you admit, then, that you have a drinking habit?”

“That’s not what I said,” he sputters, and oh, she loves the way his cheeks are already turning red. Despite his slender build, he’s taller than her, and she wonders vaguely what it would feel like to be standing up against his body, her head against his chest.

“It’s a shame we don’t have class tomorrow,” she tells him.

“Why’s that?” And he’s suddenly suspicious, one elbow against the table and his chin balanced against his fist.

“Because we’re always wondering, you know. What would tame the Dragon! Would alcohol help, or hurt?” It’s a wonderful game, she thinks. She can’t help laughing.

“It depends on how hung over the Dragon is,” Professor Kirkland mutters. Then he shakes his head, looks up. “Off with you, now, Miss Bonnefoy.”

She only nods, and gets to her feet, straightening out her layered chambray shirt and sweater. “Adieu, Professor,” she says, and in that moment it seems entirely natural to lean over just and kiss him lightly on one cheek. She’s done the same to any number of older men before—surely there’s nothing inappropriate about it.

But even though she hears him stammer, she spins on her heel and heads out the door. There’s no need to wait for a reaction, this time.

\--

“And what do we learn, then, from the revelations about Knightley’s character?” Professor Kirkland is once again lecturing to his class, looking more like a minister at the pulpit than a teacher of Jane Austen. 

“I don’t know if I’d call them revelations, exactly,” Marianne says, not bothering to raise her hand. Professor Kirkland has been avoiding her gaze studiously for the better part of a week, but now he’s forced to look at her.

“And why is that?” He purses his lips defiantly, as though he’s stopping himself from saying more.

Marianne sees her opening. She leans forward, pitching her voice into a questioning tone. “Well, it’s not as if his character changes very drastically. It isn’t like _Pride and Prejudice_ , where you think Darcy’s a mysterious asshole until he’s actually a decent man. Knightley’s always been decent.”

“Language, Miss Bonnefoy,” the professor says tiredly. And then, in a snarkier tone, “And the revelations don’t necessarily have to be about his character. What about his intentions?”

“Towards Emma?” Marianne leans back, now, and laughs. “Those were the most obvious of all! He comes around her house every day after a ten mile walk just to, what, chat with her father? That’s the oldest trick in the book, Professor.”

“Apparently not to Emma,” Kirkland says. He’s clutching his copy of the book against his chest, as if to protect it from her jaded views of romance. 

“Maybe if she was paying more attention,” Marianne suggests. “Or if it wasn’t the hinge of the whole book. ‘If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.’ If it was less important, it’d be more obvious to her.” 

“But you saw it anyway,” Kirkland suggests, and she might be imagining it, but she could almost swear he’s teasing her.

“Of course,” Marianne assures him. “I have an eye for these things. I probably knew before Knightley, even.” 

She smiles at the professor; he turns his head and calls on someone else. She steeples her fingers, and bides her time.

\--

His hand clenches around the stem of his champagne flute, so hard that he can feel the tremor run through the crystal. But Arthur doesn’t lighten his grip, nor turn away from his post. Tonight, he is a chaperone, which means that it is his job to watch his students.

But no one had said anything about watching one student in particular, which he most certainly isn’t doing—

“Woah, you okay?” Alfred ducks down to speak with him, which Arthur finds more than a little patronizing. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur grits out. He’d be better, he thinks, if Alfred would just go away.

“Mm-kay.” His colleague does not sound convinced. In fact, he’s looking at Arthur rather intently, until he turns to follow the other’s gaze. The two of them stand by one of the corner pillars of a large lawn tent, the festivities of the May Ball spread out before them. There are lanterns set up along the dance floor, and the buffet off to one side. But Arthur hadn’t been looking at any of that, and now Alfred isn’t, either. “Oh, jeez,” he says, “ _that_ is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Marianne Bonnefoy is dancing with one of the St. John’s boys, a scrawny lad with a shock of red hair. But no one can be paying much attention to him, because his partner’s presence is overwhelming. The amber lights set off ash blonde hair and pale skin, and as Marianne turns through the dance the light catches on her golden gown. Deep red ribbons lace around her waist and up her back, mimicking a corset. Her back his left mostly bare, her hair swept up into the aptly-named French knot. 

There are really no words to describe her, Arthur thinks. Not “she walks in beauty like the night” nor “a lady in the meads, full beautiful.” And it’s just as he’s thinking these things that he realizes how thoroughly screwed he is.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he snaps.

“Which is why it took you five minutes to answer me,” Alfred accuses, but with no real heat. He sighs, claps a hand to Arthur’s shoulder. “Be careful.” 

Arthur just shakes his head, and Alfred wanders off again shortly thereafter. And really, this is all unnecessary. The May Ball may be a time-honored tradition at the university, lasting through two world wars and the reign of Margaret Thatcher besides, but perhaps it’s all just foolishness in the end. It’s archaic, really, a leftover from a time when girls were only sent to St. Joan’s so that they could meet the St. John’s boys. And in those days, it wasn’t so unusual for the girls to end up married to professors. 

Oh god, Arthur thinks, sipping at his champagne. Maybe it’s time for a sabbatical. 

He looks up at precisely the wrong moment. Still on the dancefloor, Marianne catches his eye and smiles. There’s a vulpine quality to her features, as she laces her fingers against her red-headed companion’s neck and pulls him close. She’s still making eye contact with Arthur when she leans in for a kiss, letting her date slobber against her lips, her jaw, her neck.

Arthur throws back the rest of his champagne with force, tossing the flute away on one of the side tables before he makes a run for it. He yanks at his bowtie as he passes the dancefloor and banquet and climbs down the grassy bank, into the grove of trees that surrounds the campus.

He hears her before he sees her, skirts ruffling against the grass. He feels the harsh bark of the tree digging into his back, the pressure of his palms against his knees. He doesn’t open his eyes until he knows she’s right in front of him.

“Miss Bonnefoy,” he says, and he sounds breathless, even to his own ears. Away from the lantern’s light, she looks even more otherworldly—the golden glint of her gown at odds with the shadows, her eyes too bright. 

She gazes at him for a moment, lips parted slightly. He can almost see the wheels turning in her head, the moment she makes a decision. And he knows, in that moment, that he can stop her. 

Marianne leans in for a kiss, and he doesn’t push her away. 

He tastes no champagne on her breath, which surprises him. Her lips are soft and plush, and for a moment she’s content to press them against his in an insistent staccato pattern, like a heartbeat. But then the rhythm changes and she presses forward, and he parts his lips to accept the slick press of her tongue against his. He rests one hand against her slim waist, and the other shifts along her back, teasing at ribbons and silk until he finds the flushed sensation of bare skin.

She makes a soft sound of pleasure—not a moan, barely more than a gasp—but she sounds so pleased that he pulls her closer. He presses one leg between hers, even with layers of silk in the way. Her small hands are clawing at his shoulders, nails a distant pressure hindered by his layers of clothing.

Abruptly, she pulls away, panting. One of her hands is still clenched against his shoulder, and she looks up at him with a small, dazed smile. “This is the first time I’ve seen you out of tweed.”

“Wouldn’t be fit for the occasion,” he answers immediately, without thinking. “This is a formal event, Miss Bonnefoy.”

“Marianne,” she corrects him, leaning in close. “Please, call me Marianne.”

She leans her head against his shoulder, soft hair tickling his neck. He presses one hand against the small of her back and pulls her close, savoring the heat of her body and the constant beat of her heart. 

“I can’t,” Arthur says, finally. But he’s answering the wrong request.

\--

The week after the May Ball is a subdued time around campus—and not just because most students spend the weekend nursing hangovers and deleting ill-timed selfies. There’s something lax in the atmosphere as faculty and students wind down from the big night, and look towards summer break with gratefulness. 

But Marianne has something else to be grateful for, today. It’s Monday morning, and as soon as she peaks her head into Professor Kirkland’s office she knows she’s come at the perfect time. He’s leaning back in his desk chair, head tilted towards the ceiling and eyes closed. Marianne tiptoes into the office, careful not to let her heeled boots click against the tile.

“Professor? Is this a bad time?”

Kirkland jolts upright, knees knocking against the desk and setting stacks of papers flying. He and Marianne both scuffle around, grabbing the papers out of the air and off the floor, and a few minutes are spent in that harsh silence as they set things to rights.

“Désolé,” Marianne says, when they’re through, and for once she sounds like she means it.

“It’s fine,” Kirkland mutters. He leans his elbows against the desk and his head in his hands, massaging his temples. “What was it you needed, Miss Bonnefoy?”

She frowns, at that. So much for first names. “I thought we should talk.”

She sees Kirkland bite down on his lower lip, so hard that a drop of blood forms before he absently licks it away. “No, I don’t think so,” he says at length. He holds up a hand to pause her interruption, “Rather, I owe you an apology. Last weekend, I acted entirely inappropriately. There is no excuse for it.”

There’s nothing to do but laugh, in the face of this. While Kirkland gawks at her, she shakes her head. “You do realize that _I_ kissed _you_ , right, Professor?”

“I didn’t have to allow it,” Kirkland insists. “You are young, and do not know—”

“Don’t know what? What I want? Even though I’ve been goading you towards this for months? Even though I kissed James on purpose, knowing you’d see? Yes, Professor, I can see how this all your fault.”

“Don’t take this so lightly!” Kirkland really is adorable when he’s flustered, Marianne thinks. And he’s back in his usual suits, today with a red tie, and god, such a lack of fashion shouldn’t be so appealing, but it is. 

Marianne softens her smiles and reaches across the desk, trailing her fingers along the professor’s cheek. “I’m not,” she says sincerely.

“I must be twice your age,” Kirkland groans, but Marianne thinks he’s trying to convince himself more than her.

“Mm, how old are you?” she says, still stroking his cheek.

“Thirty-five,” he says, eyes fluttering closed. 

“Well, that’s alright then. I’m nineteen.” As if that settles everything, she thinks. And then, to convince him, “Knightley was seventeen years older than Emma. And they were perfectly functional!” 

Now Kirkland reaches up and grabs Marianne’s wrist, stilling her movements. “I don’t teach those books so that you’ll use them as instruction manuals. And that novel was published two hundred years ago.”

“Then why do you teach them?” she asks blandly, knowing she’s taunting him. But she does enjoy the pressure of his grip around her wrist, warm and firm. “And Louis is eleven years older than Jeanette—it really doesn’t matter!”

“Who the hell are Louis and Jeanette?” Kirkland grumbles. He hasn’t let go of her, yet. 

Marianne laughs again, the sound filling the small room. “My parents,” she tells him. Then she leans in and kisses him on the tip of his nose, because he’s adorable and she wants to. “But let’s not talk about them, right now. Is there a lock on your door?”

As it turns out, there is.

\--

Never let it be said that Professor Kirkland does not commit to something fully, once he’s come to a decision. His lips are hot and insistent against Marianne’s neck, his hands a solid presence against her hips. For long moments he’s content to lean her against the now-locked door, nosing aside the neck of her blouse to get clearer access to her skin.

“Prof— _Arthur_ ,” Marianne gasps, pushing at his shoulders. He shifts away from her immediately, arms leaving their comfortable position against her hips. She tuts, shakes her head. “I just meant, not like this. Let’s do this properly, shall we?”

There’s a look of immediate relief across his features, and she feels a tender feeling rising in her chest. But instead of focusing on that, she pulls at the hem of her blouse, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. Like all proper French ladies, she wears lingerie of black lace, and she knows the instant Arthur sees this because his hands hand come back, stroking along her back and the straps of her brassiere. She smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek, inordinately pleased when her lipstick leaves a stain there.

While he rubs along her back and the curve of her breasts, she reaches for his tie, pulling him in for a heated kiss. His hesitation bleeds away in inches, and when he bites down on her tongue she feels she could crow in victory. With one hand on the small of her back he walks them gently backwards, until the back of Marianne’s legs hit the edge of the desk. 

“Like this,” he suggests, voice rough. He lifts her just under her waist, fingers edging just under her skirt as he seats her on the edge of the desk. Then he’s kneeling, and she grins as she balances one booted foot on each of his shoulders and pushes him down further. He looks up at her and licks his lips, and the heat that’s been rising in her ignites as edges his hands below her tartan skirt.

She rests her hands in his hair, fingers dancing along the nape of his neck as he pulls down her underwear and kisses the inside of her thigh. She breathes shallowly as he licks and nips at her skin, unzipping her boots and pushing them down her legs for more access. She lifts her feet briefly to kick them off, then lies back against the desk as he kisses the crease between her hip and thigh.

Then, she loses track of time. She’s aware of Arthur’s tongue and lips against her, lapping at her clit, his fingers tracing the cure of her ass, her chest rising and sinking in an erratic pattern. She loses control of herself, legs hooking around Arthur’s back and squeezing, fingers digging into his scalp.

“Oh— _oh_!” Her breathing hitches as sensation cascades around her, Arthur’s hand rubbing concentric circles into the soft skin of her stomach. “M-merde.” 

He looks back at her, lips red and so wet, and god—it’s obscene. She laughs breathlessly, reaching for him. “Some English gentleman you are,” she says, before pressing her lips to his.

Arthur pulls back and huffs. “A man can be more than one thing. I played in a punk band for years, you pick up a few things.”

Briefly she imagines this—Arthur, fifteen years younger, in a black t-shirt and skinny jeans. She doesn’t know which version of him she prefers, the staid professor or the young rocker or the ruffled man she’s allowing to debauch her. 

She wraps her legs around his waist again, shifting along the desk so that she can reach for his belt. “Arthur,” she breaths against his neck, close to his ear, as she yanks away the offending article and pushes down his trousers. 

“Miss Bonnefoy,” he replies, and she used to think it was a formality, a way of creating distance, but now it seems like something soft and intimate and reverent. She feels light and intangible in his arms as he lifts her off the desk, her arms around his shoulders and her face pressed against his neck. She tangles her fingers in the red silk of his loose tie, yanking on it when he presses her against the wall and presses into her.

There’s something indescribable about being held in his arms, about the feeling of him within her, about the way he breathes slowly and then quickly, his nose wrinkling like a puppy’s in the rain. 

She tugs on the tie again, and Arthur’s grip tightens around her. Each movement he makes sends a tremor through her, and before she can help herself she’s babbling—stupidly affectionate words in French, how she admires the furrow between his brows and the passion of his rants, the feel of his hands and the slope of his back and—oh, god. She clamps her lips shut and lets another wave of pleasure surge over her, shaking slightly in Arthur’s arms.

He pulls out of her and lowers her to her feet, still pressing her into the wall and kissing her fiercely as he comes. They stand like that for odd moments, holding on to each other and winded, knees weak and silly smiles on their faces.

“What a mess,” Arthur mutters, nosing against Marianne’s neck.

She giggles at the sensation. “Why don’t you start being a proper professor, and keep condoms in your desk drawer for next time?”

\--

“Drawing the same character, again?” Nhị asks as she sets down her bag, glancing over Marianne’s shoulder.

“Mm.” Her response is noncommittal, her pen still inking delicate lines. It’s only when Nhị is right behind her that she looks up, startled. “Hey!”

“Is that _Professor Kirkland_?” Her roommate doesn’t sound disgusted, precisely, but there’s an element of shock in her voice that shakes Marianne to her core. She tosses the pen aside and slaps her sketchbook shut.

But the image had been clear as day, and Nhị had already seen it: two figures curled around each other, gently sloping lines suggesting a nest of sheets around them. Her hair was mussed over the pillow, her lips curved into a smile. He had his lips against her brow, his eyebrows unmistakable.

“What exactly are you thinking of?” Nhị asks, and she doesn’t sound condemning. Rather, there’s concern in her voice, and that’s what really gets to Marianne. She isn’t a girl that others pity—she’s the one they envy. She’s the one who took Nhị shopping for her May Ball gown, and made sure she was dancing with Li Na before the night was over. She’s the authority, on people and romance and ludicrously expert kissing. People don’t look at her like this.

“Nothing,” she snaps, tossing the sketchbook aside. “It’s a cartoon, it’s nothing important.”

“You spend half your life drawing them,” Nhị murmurs. “And he’s a _professor_. Wait, you’re not—”

Marianne rises to her feet, laughing at high and strained pitch. “It’s not really any of your business,” she says idly, hoping the teasing in her voice creates ambiguity. 

Nhị merely shakes her head, that same concern in her liquid-dark eyes. “These things don’t end well, Marianne.”

It hits her somewhere in the pit of her stomach, clawing through the happy euphoria that has surrounded her for the past few weeks. She imagines scenes with Arthur, sitting on a park bench and feeding him macarons, or waking up next to him in a bed with soft sheets. His office is sexy and their encounters are fantastic, but she wants more than that. She wants a life.

But these things don’t end well. The thought keeps clawing at Marianne’s mind, even as she leaves the room and wanders the campus hills. It stays with her for long, long days.

\--

“You seem happy,” Alfred says, sitting down next to Arthur and stealing the muffin left on his plate. He’s already three bites into it when Arthur looks up and punches him in the shoulder.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands, sipping at his tea. 

“Exactly what I’ve said. You’ve been weird ever since May Ball, and now summer break starts tomorrow and you’re _happy_. Did you even give the kids the lecture about not letting their brains rot for three months?”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” Arthur mutters, not really paying attention. He’s already graded final papers, posted grades and submitted a chapter draft for his next book. He isn’t distracted; he’s inspired. And this evening, he’ll be with… 

“Dude. Are you getting laid?” Alfred’s voice pitches with incredulity, and Arthur might be offended at the implications if he cared enough to note them. But the silence is damning, because after a moment’s pause Alfred is leaning over him, eyes wide. “You _are_! Who is it?” 

“I’m not going to tell you that—!” Arthur sputters, pushing Alfred away.

“Is it someone from the village?” 

Arthur shakes his head, rising to his feet and trying to edge around Alfred. Why is the buffoon so damn tall?

“Hm, okay—a coworker? Maybe someone from Classics?”

This time, Arthur rolls his eyes. Although the aging senior Professor Karpusi is as fine a lady as anyone could want, she is very much outside of his interests. As is her son, Professor Karpusi the younger.

“Is it long distance? But you haven’t been anywhere all term, and no one’s been to visit—”

“Alfred,” Arthur hisses, “Just drop it.”

“But I haven’t even seen you interested in anyone in ages! I mean, unless you count that girl from your class—oh, god. Arthur, don’t tell me that—”

Arthur claps a hand over Alfred’s mouth, eyes lit with fury. “Don’t say another word.”

Alfred shoves him away, looking down at Arthur harshly. “Arthur… what the hell are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says faintly, and he hates that he doesn’t have a good answer to give. “I’ve never felt like this, before.”

Alfred’s hands settle on his hips, but after a moment he breathes a heavy sigh. “I know you’ve spent half your life locked away with books and fairytales, but this isn’t like that. She’s a—she’s a girl, Arthur! And this could cost you everything.”

“I know it’s not a bloody fairytale,” Arthur snaps. “Everything would be easier if it _was_. But shouldn’t there be exceptions, every once in a while? Even in reality?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred says, biting his lip. He looks painfully young behind his glasses, face pinched with worry. “I mean, there’s Berwald and Tino. Tino was his TA, all those years ago. But I don’t think that’s how these things usually play out.”

“Professor Kirkland?” Marianne’s voice cuts through their conversation, and as ever she doesn’t wait for an invitation before prancing into his office. Alfred looks up sharply as she enters, Arthur looks away. 

“I should go,” Alfred says immediately. He clasps Arthur briefly on the shoulder, then nods at Marianne and leaves the room. Arthur counts his own heartbeats and the retreating sound of Alfred’s footsteps. Only when he can’t hear them anymore does he look up at Marianne.

She’s dressed in pink, today, her hair braided and a large portfolio clutched against her chest. She’s looking up at him with wide eyes, head cocked slightly to one side.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” she says, eventually.

“He wasn’t,” Arthur says immediately, but he winces when Marianne glares at him and takes a step forward.

“I’m not stupid,” she says, stepping forward again. “I know _looks_. And that was the look of a man who knows someone else’s secret.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Arthur retorts, lifting his head. He’s not going to be intimidated by this slip of a girl, he’s going to—

“Did you tell him?” Marianne asks softly. “I know what we’ve been doing, these past few weeks, it’s not… I don’t know. But it wasn’t some conquest thing, was it? Something you’ve told other people about?”

“Of course it isn’t!” He doesn’t know how this has gone so far outside his control. “Miss Bonnefoy, love, it’s not like that. Professor Jones is my best friend, and inconveniently intuitive when he puts his mind to it.”

“So he does know.” Marianne’s voice is very far away, and Arthur hates it. He hates that he might be the cause of her sadness. Eventually, she sighs. “What are we going to do, Arthur?”

“What do you mean?”

She laughs, but it isn’t filled with her usual confident good humor. “I wasn’t thinking ahead, I suppose. I just knew that I lov—wanted you, and now the term is ending and my parents are taking me to Monaco for three months, and when I come back I don’t know what we’re going to do. Is Professor Jones going to tell someone?”

“No, he won’t. He wouldn’t do that.” He trusts me, Arthur thinks, though I’ve done little to deserve it. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. What do you _want_ to do?”

“I wanted to give you this,” she says, pulling open the portfolio. What she hands him is a thin canvas in a protective cover. “I’m leaving tomorrow, you can look at it then, alright? Let’s just—forget about everything else for now.”

He sets the canvas by his desk, pulls Marianne close and kisses her with passion and regret and apology. He brushes his fingers through the strands of hair that have come loose from her braid, and inhales deeply.

“Alright, love. Let’s just forget about everything else.”

\--

He looks back on that moment, and the night that followed, with a strange cocktail of emotions. It was the first and last time he took Marianne Bonnefoy to his home, to his bed. In the morning she scurried off to catch a train, and he barely remembered the scent of her perfume from when she ducked her head and kissed him goodbye.

The canvas is another matter entirely. He hung it in his study—an intimate charcoal drawing of him addressing a class, a book clenched in one hand and the other gesturing animatedly. The curve of his nose, the slope of his cheeks, and the intensity of his eyes are all more than real, edging into cartoony but not losing their artistic quality. 

He thinks, with regret, that he never even knew Marianne was interested in art.

Marianne doesn’t return to St. Joan’s for Michaelmas Term. 

\--

It’s a cozy café in Paris, and though Arthur hates the city he has even less interest in taking tea back at the hotel, surrounded by two dozen other professors and their dribbling after-conference conversation. So he orders his usual pot of Earl Grey and elbows his way through the crowd, looking for a free seat.

He sees the woman on his second glance around, sitting by herself with a cup of expresso on the table before her. She’s dressed in elegant black, her blonde hair bound at her neck. She has long, sculpted features and a casual grace that he finds himself staring at.

When she looks up, they both realize it at once.

“Prof—Arthur,” she corrects herself. “What on earth are you doing in Paris?” 

“Academic conference,” he mutters, edging through the crowd to come and stand beside her. 

“Of course,” she says agreeably. She gestures at the seat across from him. “Sit down, sit down. Let’s catch up—it’s been, what, five years?”

“Six, actually.”

“Mm,” she hums, sips at her espresso. “I must say, you haven’t aged a day. And still a fan of tweed, I see.”

“You look—well, Marianne, you look beautiful.” He grinds his words, as though he’s loathe to admit to them.

She pauses, looking at him earnestly. “You called me by my name,” she says.

“That’s how you sign your cartoons, isn’t it? Just your first name.”

She blushes, and reaches across the table to take his hand. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d know about those.”

“Of course I do. They’re wonderful. Philosophical and talented and wickedly clever. I never miss one.” He squeezes her hand, amazed at how it feels different and yet exactly the same.

The conversation moves on, but Arthur is stuck in place. He takes a breath, takes a chance. “What are you doing for dinner, tonight?” 

It’s a horribly pedestrian start, but then again, this isn’t a romance, nor a fairytale.

**Author's Note:**

> The St. John's/St. Joan's university system is very loosely based off Cambridge's, which also has multiple colleges that share a campus and activities. Girton College, Cambridge was a women's college until the late 1970s. They do have an annual May Ball, which is known for being rather extravagant. Term dates and names were borrowed from the Cambridge system, as well, along with some anachronistic details like the inter-college mailing system.
> 
> Louis and Jeanette, Marianne's parents, are modeled after Louis XV of France and his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, who's given name was Jeanne Antoinette Poisson. They historically were 11 years apart in age. 
> 
> Arthur's curriculum covers a lot of British literature, but the works specifically mentioned are "The Wife of Bath's Tale" from _The Canterbury Tales_ , and Jane Austen's _Emma_. Those stories have interesting things to say about women's agency in different time periods. Arthur also quotes two poems, briefly: "She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron, and "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by John Keats. 
> 
> And because I had too much fun looking for fashion inspiration, here is Marianne's wardrobe, in order of appearance:  
> ([1](http://i.imgur.com/rhuqvUD.jpg)) ([2](http://i.imgur.com/V7r1oqs.jpg)) ([3](http://i.imgur.com/Tj1o6v9.jpg)) ([5](http://i.imgur.com/X5JH0rY.jpg)) ([6a](http://i.imgur.com/fXxjyNm.jpg), [6b](http://i.imgur.com/m0kmC2f.jpg)) ([7](http://i.imgur.com/nP7N57V.jpg)) ([8](http://i.imgur.com/mRbq8Yg.jpg)) ([9](http://i.imgur.com/PD0c2wY.jpg))
> 
> And in the spirit of fairness, here is a look at Arthur's tweed suits:  
> ([1](http://i.imgur.com/GipEs89.jpg)) ([2](http://i.imgur.com/Xe4t9jv.jpg)) ([3](http://i.imgur.com/5Pgq2cM.jpg))
> 
> I had this originally written about a month ago, and so Marianne's chosen career is not meant to reflect current events in France whatsoever. It was a rather unfortunate coincidence, and I hope no one finds that aspect of her character insensitive.


End file.
